


slip into your skin (and spend the night)

by ghostbythesea



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, M/M, Multi, POV Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Theon Greyjoy Needs a Hug, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25663630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostbythesea/pseuds/ghostbythesea
Summary: “I’m more Northern than Ironborn, now,” Theon scoffed.“And yet, here we are.”Theon supposed that he was right. “I’m dead, yeah?”“Unfortunately,” the Drowned God said blithely.Theon is made an offer he can’t refuse.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy & Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy & Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Starks, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 33
Kudos: 235





	1. Theon’s Not Okay With This

**Author's Note:**

> This’ll be slow to update, I think, and maybe six or seven chapters about the same length as this one. This is my first time writing for Game of Thrones, although personally, I enjoyed the books better than the television show. Theon’s my second favorite character after Renly, and he deserved a lot more than he got in the television show, although his death was better than most of the others.

He was sitting on a beach, salty water licking at the toes of his leather boots. The sky was stormy, and he thought it might be raining, but it was difficult to distinguish it from the sea spray. Regardless, he wasn’t cold, not in his ruined leather armor and bloodstained clothes, sewn for the northern lands but equally suitable for keeping warm when at sea.

Simply put, Theon was dead.

It’d been an honorable death, defending Brandon Stark, still so young but with a soul so old, he wasn’t sure if it was human anymore. He’d fought the Night King together with his family and his men, but he wasn’t sure how the battle had turned out. Whether someone had killed him, or if he’d won the battle, despite everything they’d sacrificed, he’d died too early to know for certain. He could only hope that the White Walkers had been defeated by someone else.

He wondered where Robb was, if anywhere. House Stark followed a strange combination of the Old Gods and the Faith of the Seven, so wherever he’d wound up after his death, he likely hadn’t been returned to the sea, like Theon clearly had been. It would be nice to get the chance to apologize to him, even if he didn’t deserve forgiveness.

“You fought bravely,” someone said behind him.

Theon glanced back, finding a man wearing the simple clothes of a sailor — breeches with a white shirt tucked into them, and leather boots. His beard was short and neatly trimmed, tussled black curls blowing in the strong coastal winds, and it struck him that the Drowned God had a lot fewer tentacles than he’d imagined when he was little. If it weren’t for his ominous mien, and the scent of seawater and smoke, he wouldn’t have recognized him.

“In the end,” Theon said, looking back towards the sea, where he thought he could see ships on the foggy horizon, “I was fighting for my home, and my family. There wasn’t much else that I could do, besides be brave.”

He was fighting for Sansa, Arya, and Bran, and for his sister and mother, back in the Iron Islands. He was fighting for the ghosts of everyone already dead, Robb and Rickon, the Lord and Lady Stark. He was fighting for everyone who called him a coward, not because he wanted to prove to them that he wasn’t, but because he hadn’t wanted to die afraid. He’d spent too much time afraid.

Boots shuffling in the sand told him that the Drowned God was walking towards him. He sat down next to Theon in the sand, legs crossed underneath himself, and when he was closer, he could tell that his fingernails were blue and his skin pruny, like he’d spent too much time bathing in cold water. His skin was almost translucent, thin enough that veins were visible, and his simple clothes were frayed at the edges.

“Your flesh is forged from iron as much as any man or woman sailing those waters,” the Drowned God said, gesturing towards the seemingly endless sea before them. Theon knew they were on a beach, but somehow, he knew that he wasn’t meant to stay on the shore. Something told him not to look too far behind himself. “You’ve made your ancestors proud.”

“I’m more _Northern_ than Ironborn, now,” Theon scoffed.

“And yet, here we are.”

Theon supposed that he was right. “I’m dead, yeah?”

“Unfortunately,” the Drowned God said.

He had his three lost fingers back, at least, good as they were before. There wasn’t scarring, either, from being flayed so many times, and he flexed them carefully, examining them. Within his boots, he could feel his toes where they should be, and as the thought struck him, he reached down, and—

“Everything’s there, lad. Don’t need ta’ go feeling for it.”

Sighing shakily, Theon rubbed his gloved hands together. A chill was starting to seep into his bones through his clothes, although he wasn’t sure whether it was the coldness of death, or the winds that were battering them. The seawater was leaking into his boots, too, making them uncomfortably moist, and he wondered when he’d be able to board the ships and leave the beach.

“Where am I to go next?” Theon asked.

The Drowned God’s lips turned upwards in a knowing smile. Theon’s stomach twisted, although he tried not to outwardly reveal his nervousness. “That depends on whether you’re content with the way things ended.”

Theon’s breath caught in his throat. “No,” he mumbled, “I suppose not.”

“You have regrets, yeah?” Theon nodded, looking down at his feet in the sand and seawater. He didn’t know how much the Drowned God know of his misdeeds, as his power waned the farther one got from the sea, but he clearly knew enough. “You’ve been ripped apart and remade stronger. You’re strong enough to remedy them.”

“You’re speaking in riddles.” He knew he shouldn’t be speaking disrespectfully to the deity who’d decide where he was to spend the rest of eternity, but he couldn’t help himself. Theon had never held a fondness for wordplay and hidden meanings. It made everything much more complicated than it should’ve been. “Whatever you’re offering me, I’m not interested.”

“I’m offering you a chance to go back. Are you going to deny it?”

“There’s a price for everything,” Theon protested.

“And you’ve already paid the price for this,” the Drowned God said, grinning slyly at him with closed lips. It sent a shiver through his spine, because while he didn’t necessarily feel anything _malevolent_ behind that smile, there was something else there that he couldn’t quite place. “What else is there for you, besides spending the rest of eternity here?”

There was Sansa, his queen, at the forefront of his mind, and how innocent she’d been before she’d left for King’s Landing and everything went to hell. He thought of Robb’s smile, his auburn curls and those bright blue eyes, how damn _trusting_ he was of everyone around him until he’d gotten murdered at a wedding. The faces of the miller’s boys came into his mind unbidden, burnt and disfigured. If he went back, he could stop everything from happening, and protect the people important to him.

Theon‘s exhaustion was so deep it made his bones ache, but he wasn’t about to let an opportunity to right his own wrongs go to waste. He’d spent a long enough time focusing on just his own well-being, that it was about time he focused on helping others for a change. Nothing he’d ever do would make up for his misdeeds, how soaked in blood his hands were, but he could try, and that would have to be enough. He’d live a thousand lifetimes before allowing anyone he cared about to come to harm again, especially when he could put a stop to it easily.

“I’ll do it.”

The Drowned God’s smile widened. “I expected you would. Now get up, lad.”

Theon rose to his feet, rubbing his arms to try to shake the chill. Next to him, the deity stood as well. “What do I have to do to, uh, get back?” He asked, unsure of how to proceed. He wondered if he would have to drown, and the thought made him uncomfortable, although he knew that it shouldn’t. That was the basis of his faith, the idea of returning oneself to the sea, and the reason that the people of the Iron Islands regraded drowning as the most desirable method of death. Perhaps Theon had spent too much time on the mainland.

Pointing at the endless beach behind them, the Drowned God grabbed his shoulder, steering him in that direction. “Just keep walking, and don’t stop. Your boots will take you where you’re meant to be, eventually.”

He could be walking for awhile, then.

“How long am I supposed to walk?” Theon asked. But he was already gone, like he’d never been there at all. He looked down the beach in either direction, but besides him and the grass, there was nothing. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he took a step forwards, and—

Without warning, the world was pulled out from under his feet, and Theon‘s breath was ripped away from his lungs as he tumbled forwards. The feeling was sickening, like stepping off a ledge, or missing the step on a staircase, and he only had a moment to wonder what he’d gotten himself into, accepting the offer, before he was landing on his feet again.

He was standing in the hills outside of a small holdfast, and he was holding a heavy sword in the pelt of a wolf. A man was speaking words he couldn’t focus enough on to hear, and when he turned his head, he was startled to find Lord Eddard Stark, furs wrapped around his shoulders, addressing a small crowd of onlookers. Their breaths fogged in the cold air, and as he looked across the faces in the crowd, he was startled to meet Robb’s gaze.

Lord Stark took his sword, and unsheathed it.

“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,” Lord Stark declared, the familiar words ringing loudly in the air, “I do sentence you to die.”

When he raised his greatsword and brought it back down, the man’s head came clean off. Blood sprayed across the snow dusting the ground, and the horses panicked and reared as their masters restrained them. The head rolled towards Theon’s feet, but he didn’t flinch.

Before, he’d kicked it away, and laughed. Instead, he took a step away. Jon mumbled something to a younger Brandon, too low for him to hear, but he found himself staring at them anyways, at Jon Snow before he realized that he was of noble blood, and Bran, before he’d fallen from the broken tower, broke his spine, and became the Three-Eyed Raven.

“Greyjoy.”

He jumped, but when he turned, he only found Robb, staring at him with concern in his bright blue eyes. It’d been years since he’d heard his voice, and he found that Robb didn’t even have stubble on his cheeks, yet. It was the day they’d found the direwolves, Theon recalled, and the day that news of the death of Jon Arryn had been announced. The first player on the board had already fallen, and it wouldn’t be long before others followed.

“ _Theon_ ,” Robb said, using his given name, this time, “are you alright?”

The other men were already mounting their steeds, but Theon was still standing next to the execution block, knowing that he probably looked as dumbstruck as he felt. “I’m _fine_ , Stark,” he tried to assure him, but when Lord Stark placed a hand on his shoulder, he barely stopped himself from flinching away.

“It’s a man’s duty to carry out his own sentence,” Lord Stark said firmly. Theon thought of the miller’s boys again, how he hadn’t had the guts to kill them himself, and felt his stomach turn. He was being talked to like a child, but his ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton, everything around him distant, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I understand that it’s sickening, but—”

Theon bent at the waist, and spilled his breakfast over the dead man’s head.

Part of him was ashamed, and the other part thought he probably should’ve kicked it away like before, but then he was collapsing to his knees as Robb ran a hand soothingly over his back, and he couldn’t focus on anything but trying to stop. His stomach ached from the force of it, his vision blackening at the edges, but he couldn’t stop until he was just spitting up bile and dry-heaving, throat sore and mouth disgusting.

Bran had never been a weepy child, but he’d started to cry at Theon’s pitiful display, and that just made him feel worse. Jon was staring in disgust, the other men averting their gazes from their Lord’s unfortunate ward, and the embarrassment was almost too much to handle. “I’m fine,” he managed to choke out again, but the words sounded empty, even to his own ears.

“You’re clearly not fine,” Robb said dryly, helping him stumble to his feet once his stomach was empty. He leaned heavily on him, feeling his warmth deep in through his clothes, and he closed his eyes, trying not to cry over how good it felt to have him back. “C’mon, get on your horse.”

“Thank you,” Theon mumbled as he helped him mount Smiler. The horse had burned to death in the sacking of Winterfell, back when Ramsay Bolton and his men took the castle. He stroked his familiar coat, breathing shakily in relief. It wasn’t some trick. “I’m sorry, Robb, for everything.”

Robb mounted his own horse. “There’s no need to apologize, Theon. Well,” glancing back at the executed deserter, Robb laughed breathily, his eyes creasing slightly at the corners, “I suppose he might deserve an apology. My brother, too, for scarring him at such a young age.”

Theon knew that he would be hearing about the incident for months, but the thought that he would have Robb safe and at his side for at least three turns of the moon was intoxicating. He could still remember a time when Robb was dead, partly because of his own foolishness, but with Robb healthy and hale on his horse next to him, it was difficult to reconcile his memories with reality.

“Are you alright?” Bran asked, his young voice filled with concern. It’d been years since he’d heard emotion in his voice, as by the time he’d returned to Winterfell from the exile that Theon had caused, he’d already been replaced with whatever the Three-Eyed Raven was. It was Bran, but it wasn’t. “I reckon it’s okay to be afraid, sometimes.“

There he was, being comforted by a child, but Theon didn’t have the heart to reject him. Not after everything they’d gone through, and dying for him in another life, and another time. “It’s the only time you can be brave,” he assured Bran, cleaning the remaining sick from his chin and lips with his sleeve. The hairs on his chin were short and rough, catching on the fabric, and he knew he’d either have to shave it, or grow out a proper beard.

He thought he caught a thin smile on Lord Stark’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “It’s a long ride to Winterfell,” he declared solemnly, “so it’s best if we get on the road. We should be home by nightfall.”

The ride back, despite having been years since he’d taken it, was familiar. Jon and Robb raced through the woods together, although Robb had only suggested it to his foster brother once he’d made sure that Theon was okay, and Theon rode back with Lord Stark and Bran, listening to their conversation. They talked about the meaning of lordship, and why Lord Stark liked to conduct his own executions, and Theon let his mind drift to the sounds of their voices.

Whatever price he’d paid, it was worth it to have his family back, the people he should’ve been loyal to rather than his father. He’d grown to have respect for his sister, Asha, and he had fond memories of his mother, but besides them, he had no family back in the Iron Islands that cared about him. He’d dreamed of someday returning, being named their Lord, and finally proving himself to them, but he recognized now that none of it would be possible without paying the iron price and sacrificing everything that mattered to him the most.

Theon’s loyalty belonged to House Stark now, and to the North. He’d do everything in his power to save them, from preventing the treachery of the Boltons and the Karstarks to stopping his father’s second rebellion, and preventing the a Night King’s rise again. They’d need dragons, he realized, and for Lord Stark to not commit treason against the crown, or the dice would be rolled in the same manner as they were before, and the game would be lost to them before it could even truly start.

“Theon,” Lord Stark said firmly, and he snapped to attention. The man looked vaguely amused, although the slant of his brows was suspicious. He didn’t know what to make of Theon, although whatever he thought was wrong with him was probably wrong. “You’ve been quiet today. Is something the matter? Are you still feeling sick, lad?”

It wasn’t concern for him, Theon was certain.

“I only remembered that it could’ve been my head on the stump.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he realized they were coming out, the unspoken truth that had been hanging over them since he’d been taken as a ward. Lord Stark’s expression of surprise and the horror on Bran’s face made him immediately regret it. “I’m sorry, m’lord, I only—”

“You are your father’s only heir,” Lord Stark interrupted tersely. He turned to stare ahead of them as he talked, refusing to meet his gaze, and the clench of his jaw was solemn. “You are in no danger here.”

He was conveniently not mentioning that his father loved his sister more than him, and that he’d already lost his elder two sons trying to win back the crown he felt was stolen from him. Theon regretted initiating the conversation, although why that was what decided to come out of his mouth, he wasn’t certain. “Of course,” Theon said, his mouth dry.

“And father,” Bran said, turning towards him, “you couldn’t hurt Theon anyways. He’s our brother, after all.”

Theon could’ve laughed.

“Bran,” Lord Stark sighed, “he’s—”

“Father, Bran, come quickly!” Jon interrupted from up ahead on the path, causing their heads to turn towards him. He rode up to them on his horse, forehead sticky with sweat despite the cold air. “Come see what Robb has found!”

Jory rode up beside them. “Trouble, my lord?”

“Beyond a doubt,” Lord Stark jested, although his voice was tense. He glanced towards Theon, expression unreadable, before nodding towards his nephew. It was strange, how Theon knew a secret that, besides Lord Stark himself, nobody else knew. Perhaps his knowledge could be a bargaining chip. “Come, let’s see what mischief my sons have rooted out _now_.”

They rode together, and soon came to find Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, staring down at something by the water’s edge with Jon mounted at his side. He cradled what Theon already knew to be a pup, talking in a hushed, excited voice with his brother.

Hounds still terrified him, after what happened at the Dreadfort, but Ramsay’s had been starved and abused, just like him. It was the barking and the Chasing that scared him, the feeling of being prey to something more powerful than him. But with the direwolves, he wasn’t afraid, not when they felt like protectors more than predators, and when Summer, even after everything he’d done, still greeted him warmly when they’d met each other again in Winterfell.

Jory and Theon were the first to approach, and though Theon had no fear for the direwolf pup he already knew would soon belong to one of the Stark siblings, Jory sucked in a breath, reaching for his sword. “Robb, get away from it!” Jory insisted, stepping forwards protectively. He’d always been protective over the children, being one of Lord Stark’s loyalest bannermen.

Robb glanced up from the bundle in his arms. “She can’t hurt you,” he promised, “she’s _dead_ , Jory.”

“A direwolf pup,” Theon said calmly. Robb grinned at him.

Bran cried out gleefully, and it was startling to see him dismount and wade through the snow to his brothers. He reached out hesitantly towards the pup, amazement written on his face. “Go on,” Robb encouraged his younger brother gently, “you can touch him.”

Petting the pup sheepishly, Bran barely touched him before tugging his hand away, but then Jon was placing another in his brother’s arms, and Bran melted as he held the second pup close.

“There’s five of them,” Jon said, but Theon knew that there was a sixth. He wouldn’t mention it, not until Jon noticed the runt by the tree himself. Bran sat down in the snow deep, cradling the pup close to his face with a broad smile spread across his face. “He’s soft, yeah?”

“Direwolves,” Hullen spat bitterly, “loose in the realm, after not being seen in a hundred years. I don’t like it, my lord.”

“It’s a sign,” Jory insisted.

“This is only a dead animal, Jory,” Lord Stark said, although he sounded unsure of himself. Theon was hesitant to believe in signs from the Gods, but after everything he’d seen, he had no doubt that it was one. “Do we know what—”

Theon leaned down, ripping the antler out of her throat. A hush fell over the crowd of men as they stared, and Theon sighed heavily, tossing the blasted angler into the icy river. It was carried away, and they watched it go solemnly, faces going pale. They knew the sigil of House Baratheon well.

“I’m surprised she lived long enough to whelp,” Lord Stark mumbled.

“Maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came,” Jory mused.

“Born with the dead,” another man quipped, “ _worse_ luck.”

“It’s no matter when they’ll be dead soon, too,” said Hullen.

Bran gasped in horror. “You can’t! He’s mine.”

“Bran,” Lord Stark said, “hand it over to Theon.”

Theon didn’t reach out to grab it, not like last time, although he extended his hand. Bran shook his head vigorously, tears gathering in his doe-like eyes, and he clutched the pup closer to his chest, desperate to protect it. Summer would be his name, Theon thought wryly, named in hope of better times ahead.

“We’ll keep them,” Robb said solemnly.

“It’d be a mercy to kill them,” Hullen pointed out, gesturing towards their rotting mother. Bran glanced towards her, then quickly away, like the sight made him feel sick. “They don’t have their mother. Won’t survive long without her.”

“No!” Bran shouted.

“Ser Rodrick’s bitch whelped only two pups,” Robb insisted. His cheeks were starting to flush, the smile having fallen from his face. Theon wanted to assure him everything would be alright, that his brother would step in soon, but he couldn’t risk disrupting the conversation and ruining it. “I’m certain that she’ll have plenty of milk for them.”

“She’ll rip them apart when they try to nurse,” Hullen scoffed.

“Lord Stark,” Jon said, speaking up at last, “there are five pups. Three male, and two female.”

“What of it?” Lord Stark asked tiredly.

“You have five trueborn children,” Jon reminded him. In truth, Lord Stark only had five children, but he wouldn’t mention that. Jon wasn’t even a bastard. “Three sons, and two daughters, and the direwolf is the sigil of your house. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.”

Lord Stark’s face softened, and Theon knew he’d been persuaded. “You want no pup for yourself, Jon?”

“The direwolf is the sigil of House Stark,” Jon said calmly, “and I am no Stark.”

A smile tugged at Theon’s lips, and he had to stop himself from laughing. No, the boy was no Stark, but he was a trueborn Targaryen, and his mother’s family was. The blood of dragons flowed through his veins, just as the blood of the Starks did. He was the rightful prince, and yet to everyone else, he was simply a bastard by the name of Jon Snow.  


The others would learn eventually, he was certain.

“I will nurse him myself,” Robb promised his father. He sent his brother a grateful glance, nodding subtly at him. “I will soak a towel with warm milk, and allow him to suckle from that.”

“Me too,” Bran said.

Lord Stark sighed heavily. “Easy to say, and harder to do. You won’t waste the servant’s time with this.”

“We won’t,” Robb insisted.

“You’ll feed them yourselves, and train them yourselves, and when they die, you’ll bury them yourselves. Is this clear to you both?”

“Yes, father,” Robb said, as Bran answered, “yes!”

“These pups might die, regardless of what you do,” Lord Stark reminded them.

“They won’t,” Robb said firmly, “because we won’t let them.”

“Keep them, then,” Lord Stark said, exhaustion evident in his voice. Strangely, Theon sympathized with him the most, now, with his new perspective. He could understand the weariness, the weight of holding everything on his shoulders.

Bending down, Theon took two of the pups, tucking them into his own leathers and watching from the corner of his eyes as Robb did the same. He looked pleased with himself, eyes shining with happiness, and the sight made Theon smile, too. Together, they mounted their horses again, and Theon couldn’t help but count his fingers, all ten of them on his hands. He didn’t appreciate having ten fingers until three were taken from him.

Riding away, he expected it when Jon said he heard a noise, and stopped to investigate. He watched him, with some amount of amusement, as he bent down, gathering up the bundle of white fur he knew was to be his Ghost. He’d mocked him for it before because he was jealous, but he kept quiet this time, because Jon truly deserved some amount of happiness.

What he wasn’t expecting was when he pulled up _two_ pups, one white, and one a slightly reddish grey. He did a double take, unable to believe what he was seeing, before he concluded that there were, in fact, two pups held in his arms.

“They must’ve crawled away,” Jon said softly, sounding almost reverent.

Robb turned towards him, grinning. “I think,” he said brightly, “that they’re for the both of you.”

“I’m not a Stark,” Theon said quickly in disbelief.

“But you’ve been raised as one,” Bran reminded him.

“Your father could take it,” Theon suggested, bristling, “or your lady mother.”

“Our mother would rather leave him to die, I think,” Robb jested.

He couldn’t argue with that.

Theon shot a glare up towards the heavens, although he doubted that if the Drowned God or the Seven were watching him, that they particularly cared. Perhaps it was a good omen, that he was somehow included, but if such major changes were already happening, it bode poorly fo what was to come. He already knew that he’d never be a true Greyjoy, but to be counted by them as another child of House Stark? It was truly an offense.

“ _Fine_ ,” he snapped. Reaching out, he exchanged one of the pups in his own arms for the reddish pup that Jon was holding. It blinked upwards at him sleepily, with strikingly bright blue eyes that were barely opening, and he felt himself soften.

“Theon’s one of us, now,” Bran said proudly. Robb’s smile widened, while Jon’s nose wrinkled in displeasure.

Lord Stark looked back at them, something like pride on his face, and Theon supposed that things could certainly have been worse. The fact that he was getting a second chance at all was a miracle, let alone a chance before everything else had happened. Before Lord Stark’s execution, or Theon’s own ill-fated trip back to the Iron Islands, or Robb’s death.

And Ramsay Bolton. Always, _always_ Ramsay. The thought of him made Theon want to heave again.

“C’mon,” Lord Stark said, “we’ve spent long enough in this forest, I think.”


	2. Wolf Pups’ Names And Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The children of House Stark name their pups, and Theon contemplates his father’s treason.

Winterfell had stood proudly in the North for almost ten thousand years, and although Theon had watched it be burned, and the Night King had laid siege upon it, the foundation never crumbled. It stood as a testament to the ages, and a symbol of House Stark’s enduring influence, because as the saying went, there must always be a Stark at Winterfell.

The castle made its appearance on the horizon in the early afternoon, and although Theon had been at Winterfell during the Night King’s assault, he’d been a stranger in its walls, then. Now, he was coming home, to the only place he truly belonged anymore, and he felt a lump forming in his throat. Taking a shaky breath, he tightened his grip on his horse’s reins, feeling the wolf pups squirming inside of his shirt and doublet.

Next to him, Robb rode at his side, and Theon had already decided that he wouldn’t be betraying him again. He’d taken Robb’s trust and loyalty for granted, hadn’t been able to see past his own jealously to realize that they were brothers, and threw everything he had away for the chance to please a man who already viewed Theon as dead to him, lost to House Stark and the North as soon as he’d been handed over to Lord Stark as a hostage.

“Greyjoy,” Robb teased, nudging him out of his thoughts with an elbow in his side, “why are you looking so emotional? You aren’t about to weep, are you?”

“Of course not,” Theon scoffed, although it was a near thing.

Just hearing Robb’s voice was making him teary, because it really had been too long since he’d last seen him, and his absence had quickly become a festering wound. After everything that happened with Lord Bolton, Ramsay, it had been Robb who haunted his dreams. He hadn’t seen him be killed, but he could remember Robb’s corpse, with his direwolf’s head sewn onto his neck and crossbow bolts sticking out from his body, as vividly as if he’d seen it himself.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Robb asked, the teasing edge turning to concern as his brow furrowed. “At the execution—”

“I had a bit too much to drink last night,” Theon lied, “that’s all.”

Robb huffed, shaking his head. “I was wondering where you’d been. You missed supper again, and I thought you’d miss the execution.”

It was less likely that Theon was drunk, and more likely that he was fucking some tavern wench, or one of the women working in Winterfell. Most nights when he was younger, he’d spent with whores, filling up the emptiness inside of himself with whatever attention he could get. Now, he had his... parts back, that part of himself still felt detached, like most of his past did.

There was the old Theon, and then there was Reek, and now, he was still the Theon who had rebuilt himself after his torture, even though he’d been returned to where he was before everything had started falling apart. A year of torture wasn’t something that he’d be moving past anytime soon, even though he no longer bore the physical scars he’d received during his time at the Dreadfort.

“Winter Town has its share of respectable dining establishments,” Theon reminded him. He was hardly thinking about the words coming from his mouth, but conversing with Robb had always felt natural, as easy as breathing, or fucking, he supposed. He’d been so jealous of Jon, he’d forgotten that he was still Robb’s friend.

“Yeah,” Robb agreed, grinning broadly, “taverns and winesinks.”

Gods, that smile made him want to _melt_.

“Hey,” Robb said gently, reaching out. His fingers brushed Theon’s arm, and while his first instinct was always to shrink away, the reflex had been trained out of him. Robb grabbed his arm, and he forced himself to relax. “Are you sure that everything’s alright, Theon?”

Theon took a shaky breath, and fought the urge to laugh. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Robb scoffed, his tone one of mild frustration, “maybe that you were sick at the execution? And even now, you’re not quite yourself. You’ve been more subdued than usual.”

As much as Theon wanted to tell Robb everything, there were other men around them, and he doubted that Robb would believe him regardless. And besides, what harm would come by sparing Robb the knowledge of his family’s fate, and his own death? It wasn’t like Theon would find some way of preventing it before he could come to harm.

“I told you,” Theon said, “I just had a few too many ales.”

“Robb, you should stop coddling him. He did it to himself.”

“Jon,” Robb huffed, sending a glare towards his brother. Jon shrugged, urging his horse forwards. Turning towards Theon, his expression softened, expression one of concern. “You know that if you need anything, you can tell me? Don’t just drink your problems away, if that’s what this is.”

Theon swallowed dryly. “Yeah. I know.”

Robb’s lips curled into a smile. “Good.”

“Boys,” Lord Stark called from where the rest of the traveling party had ridden on ahead of them, “get a move on.”

“Coming, father,” Robb called, spurring his horse into an easy trot.

Theon encouraged Smiler to do the same, stroking the horse’s mane gently. It felt good, riding again. His horsemanship was vastly better than his sailing, yet another way he’d failed his asshole of a father. Not that he cared anymore about earning his approval. He should’ve stopped caring as soon as he’d found out that Balon was willing to trade his life away for the crown, just as he did his elder brothers’, but he’d always been a weak fool, starved of attention and desperate for validation. Not anymore, he told himself.

He watched Robb as they rode back to Winterfell, still captivated by him, and felt himself tearing up again. It didn’t feel real, having him back again, and he knew that there was likely some caveat that he didn’t know about. The Drowned God had said that he’d already paid the iron price for getting a second chance, but he knew that there had to be some catch. He just didn’t know it yet. That itself almost made him more nervous than the concept of having the lives of everyone he loved resting on his shoulders.

They rode through the gates, and brought their horses to the stables. Theon stroked Smiler’s muzzle, then worked to remove his tack, setting it down in his stall. He tried to be subtle about watching Robb, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, but Robb caught him staring more than once, no matter how quickly he turned away.

Removing the wolf pups from their vests, they walked into the entrance hall, and Theon couldn’t help but suck in a breath at the tapestries hanging on the walls and the servants moving through the room, in contrast to the barren place it’d become after it had been sacked. The guilt that washed over him was almost overwhelming. Winterfell had been a prison for so many years, but it’d been a home for him, too. For Sansa, he’d been prepared to stay.

Robb was looking at him oddly, and he cleared his throat, blinking away the tears in his eyes. Gods, he knew he was acting strangely, but he wasn’t the same foolish boy who’d cared about nothing but whores and archery. He needed to pretend that there was nothing wrong, but it was impossible when naught a few hours before, most everyone he knew had been dead, Robb included. Whatever the Drowned God’s motivations were, it was his responsibility to correct everything that had come to wrongs.

Starting, he supposed, with Sansa’s engagement to Joffrey, the little blonde prick. Or perhaps Bran’s fall from the broken tower, likely caused by a member of House Lannister, although whether it was actually Tyrion, or another one of their family’s lackeys, he’d never discovered. He wished that he had paid more attention to the intricacies of politics, but between being tortured and trying to save the Seven Kingdoms, there had been more pressing matters.

“What’s that?” A young voice shouted, piercing in its volume, and Theon flinched, turning around to find a young brunette running towards them. Arya, his memory supplied, although she looked so much more different from how he remembered her. “Are they dogs?”

“They’re direwolves,” Robb said, smiling down at his younger sister.

“And they’re ours,” Bran added, passing a wolf to his sister. Theon couldn’t remember what hers was named, even though he tried searching for it in his mind. He remembered Lady, because Sansa had waxed mournfully about her to him before, but Arya’s direwolf had been gone just as long. “Jon convinced father to let us keep them! That one’s yours.”

Arya clutched her pup to her chest, expression one of open amazement. “Where did you find them?”

“I’m the woods,” Robb answered, “on the journey home. Their mother was killed by a stag.”

“Dogs?” Rickon asked, teetering towards them. He looked so small, Theon thought, just as small as those miller’s boys had been. He was hardly more than a baby when he’d been killed.

Behind him, Lady Catelyn entered the room, her eyes opening wide in horror. She rushed forwards, tugging her son away, and reached for Arya before hesitating to remove the pup from her grasp. “Are those wolves, boys?”

“Father said we could keep them,” Bran was quick to assure her.

At that, Lady Catelyn’s expression softened, although her brow remained furrowed. She trusted her husband’s judgement, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t pass her own. “Direwolves haven’t been spotted south of the wall in hundreds of years.”

“Jon convinced our father it was a sign,” Robb quipped.

Lady Catelyn’s expression soured at the mention of Jon, but she nodded. “I expect you’ll be caring for them yourselves?”

Bran nodded. “We promised father that we would.”

“Oh,” Sansa gasped, sweeping into the room behind her mother, “they’re precious!”

“One for you,” Robb said, handing her a pup when she walked up to him.

Lady, Theon remembered. He’d have to prevent her death, because maybe if Sansa had kept Lady close, she wouldn’t have needed to suffer as she did. The pack would survive, he reminded himself. He would make it so.

“We’ll have to name them!” Arya exclaimed.

“I’ll leave you children to it,” Lady Catelyn said, eyeing the pups in Jon and Theon’s arms cautiously. She probably thought it was some slight, that they were included by her family’s Gods when they chose to give the Stark children wolves. “I have things to discuss with your father.”

Lady Catelyn left, and Jon seemed to remember how to breath.

Rickon was given his own pup, who he met with the declaration, “Shaggydog!”

“You’re going to name him _that?_ ” Bran asked, frowning. Robb gently cuffed him upside the head, and he looked at his elder brother, confused. Children could be insensitive without realizing it, and although Bran was a sweet child, he wasn’t exempt from that.

The four year old frowned. “Yeah. He’s soft.”

“It’s a wonderful name,” Sansa complimented politely, and although it seemed like a false platitude, Rickon beamed at her, and she smiled back. She could be cruel sometimes to her sister, but it was less because she hated Arya herself, and more because she wanted to distance herself from her. “I’ll name mine Lady,” she said, looking down at the pup cradled quietly in her own arms.

Arya’s nose scrunched up. “That’s a stupid name.”

“It’s not,” Sansa snapped. “So what are you going to name yours? Beast, or maybe Menace?”

“Nymeria,” Arya declared.

Sansa’s expression softened, although her posture stiffened in response. “They’re beautiful animals, and the sigil of our house. They should be named something just as noble.”

Arya looked at her sister in shock. “She was a bloody queen!”

“Enough of this quarreling,” Robb said, laughter in his voice. He looked at his siblings fondly, because in spite of their squabbling, he loved them. Whether it was pretending to be a prince for Sansa, or wrestling with Arya, and exploring with Bran, he always made time for his siblings. “They’re all good names.”

“And what will you give yours?” Bran asked, looking towards his older brother.

“Hm,” Robb considered. Theon knew his answer before he even spoke it. “Grey Wind will do. What about you, Bran?”

“Summer,” Bran said, scratching behind the pup’s ear, “because summer means the end of winter, yeah?”

In another life, that pup had saved Bran more times than Theon even knew. Once in the tower after his fall, and another time when they’d escaped from the castle after Theon had taken Winterfell. He didn’t know what happened to Summer in the end, although he knew the fates of most of the other Starks’ direwolves. Probably lost somewhere beyond the Wall.

“What are you going to name yours, Jon?” Robb asked, turning towards him.

The lost prince frowned contemplatively, looking down at the white pup. It nuzzled against his chest, appreciative of the warmth he offered, and he caresses his face. “He looks a bit like a ghost, doesn’t he?”

Arya grinned. “Is that what you’ll name him, then?”

“I suppose that he’ll be Ghost,” Jon said.

“Theon still has his,” Robb said, turning towards him. “You’ve been awfully quiet. No smart comments?”

Theon hadn’t realized that he’d fallen quiet since they arrived, fading into the background as he usually did.  


”What will you name yours?” Bran asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking down at the reddish pup. It blinked up at him with those thoughtful blue eyes, and when he looked up, Robb was giving him an expression much the same. “I don’t, um, have any ideas.”

The others’ direwolves, he already knew the names of. The pup in his arms hadn’t even existed in his past life, let alone had a proper name. He supposed he would’ve chosen something pretentious, before, but now, everything that flitted through his head felt too absurd. Everything he could think of felt like it wouldn’t be appropriate to name him.

“Who’s a hero from the Iron Islands?” Robb asked, crowding into his space to put the two pups close together. Grey Wind licked his brother’s face, and they pawed at each other affectionately. “I’m sure you had someone you idolized as a child. Or maybe a place?”

It was as good an idea as any. “Lord Dalton, the Red Kraken,” Theon said sheepishly, “Lord of the Iron Islands during the Dance of Dragons.”

He’d been his hero when he was young, although in hindsight, it was only because of his father’s insistence that they needed to return to the traditional ways. Now, Theon couldn’t quite appreciate his ‘heroism.’ Theirs was the salt and the sea, and sailing ships and pillaging the coastline, and that was what Balon had taught his children. That they were princes whose titles were stolen from them by the mainlanders, and that someday, they would earn their crowns again.

Theon wondered what Balon would think, if he saw him with a direwolf pup pressed against his chest, then immediately rejected the thought. He wouldn’t seek out his father’s approval again, not when he had Robb’s trust and everything to lose seeking it. Balon loved the thought of being King of the Iron Islands more than he loved his own children.

“Dalton, then,” Robb said proudly.

It was fitting.

“That’ll be good,” Theon agreed.

“Weren’t the Ironborn reavers?” Bran asked, looking up from cuddling Summer, the pup seeming content to lick his chin and throat affectionately.

“Bloodthirsty sackers and pillagers,” Robb said teasingly, although the wink he shot at Theon told him he was joking. It might’ve insulted him, once, but he understood now that it wasn’t his responsibility to restore the old ways for his ancestor’s honor. He’d had his own share of terrorizing the coastline, and it wasn’t for him. “But Theon is different.”

Jon snorted. “Sure.”

It wasn’t his responsibility to help his father, but he supposed it was his responsibility to prove Jon and the rest of the North wrong about him. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, turning his back on House Stark, although he hoped he could still salvage his relationship with his sister. Of course, he would be sacrificing his remaining reputation, siding with them.

While he doubted Robb would execute him for the treason of his father, Theon was certain that the honorable Lord Stark would, regardless of whether he’d fostered him for almost ten years. He would need to find a way of preventing his execution, should his father choose to launch another rebellion, and he supposed threatening to reveal the Stark family secrets would work, although holding them over his head wasn’t constructive to a positive relationship.

Theon stood, pup tucked underneath his arm. Jon watched him, brow furrowed in suspicion.

“You’re leaving?” Robb asked, frowning.

“After today’s travels,” Theon lied, “I feel like retiring early.”

“Alright,” Robb said warily, although he still looked worried. Theon squirmed under his scrutiny. “I’ll fetch you for dinner.”

“Thank you, Robb.”

He needed to find Lord Stark.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, this might turn out more chapters than I expected, considering that the first three will take place during a single day. I’m tentatively amending my estimate of 6-7 chapters to more like 20-25, for now. Oops?
> 
> Check me out at @gay-poster-child on Tumblr, because I’m lonely and need someone to yell at me through the void.


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